‘If it was to fall on any one,’ said Lilias, ‘I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.’
The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, ‘Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.’
‘You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,’ said her cousin.
‘Of course,’ said Lily; ‘but some one thing, some punishment.’
‘I will answer you to-morrow,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘One thing more,’ said Lily, looking down; ‘after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday’s feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.’
‘Lily, you can best judge,’ said the Rector, kindly. ‘I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.’
‘How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,’ said Lily; ‘and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?’
They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, ‘God bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.’
Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.